Love Is Sorrow.

Love is sorrow, it is grief,
For what drives a man to his grave?

Lingering are his passions,
to pursue, to slave over, to save.

Love is sorrow, it is pain,
For what else would he gain?

Thunderous sounds surround,
And like hail they fall on him.

Love is sorrow, it is banal,
For what does he hold sway?

Through mud and sand and soil,
He holds fast in this place.

Love is sorrow, it is plain,
For what has he left but his beau?

In distant land far forgotten,
His sword closer to him than her.

Love is sorrow, it is grief,
For what holds a man from his reprieve?

The clarion call of sleep; The comfort of an oblique thought.

I wonder, dear friend. You spoke of the fright of sleep, how the mind subjected to a momentary oblivion, is one step away from death.

You valued your lucidity, and you cherished the moments of clarity in your wakefulness.

Now that you have gone past the veil that separates us from a higher reality, I can't help but ask, are you finally comforted on this point? Is death truly that oblivion you imagined, or is it so much more?

I find the waking world tiring, dear friend. I can't relate to your plight, if I were honest. Sleep is a comfort to me, a time where I can turn away from the fright of the waking daylight, and embrace this quiet nothingness.

My mind is dulled, and I can no longer perceive the troubles of my day. Form is fluid, thoughts are hardly there. Is this not bliss?

But I can imagine your chiding from afar... This is naivete, I hear you say. For all that you're doing, you are simply escaping for another day... And for another day you escape still... And it keeps going, and going... And finally when you realise the problem isn't truly gone; that you'd do better to fix it, you can no longer wake up...

Sleep, how enigmatic are you... Are you my friend, or my enemy? I cannot tell.

...